


let the brokenness be felt until you reach the other side

by fortunedays



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, post samaritan coping, shaw's dad pops up for a bit, the machine has really bad timing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 01:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11475558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunedays/pseuds/fortunedays
Summary: In the depths of sleep and silence, they rebuild.





	let the brokenness be felt until you reach the other side

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration for this fic was the song mars by sleeping at last which i highly recommend

At six years old, you told your father you didn't care for the dark. You weren't scared, you insisted, it was simply distasteful.

"I like hiding," you admitted, "but I don't like sleeping."

He tucked you in with a wry smile. "One day, Sameen," he whispered, like it was the key to the universe, "you will appreciate it."

* * *

The only one who tries to keep up with your sleeping schedule now is the Machine. In the month you've been home, you can count on one hand the nights you've slept more than four consecutive hours. (It's literally only been twice.) She worries, which, in turn, worries Root.

She's been watching you too, almost obsessively, since your return. She watches you with wide, haunted eyes, as if she fears you'll evaporate if her attention fades. You can't blame her. Sometimes, you lose yourself in your head for so long that you doubt your own reality. She grounds you then.

It's become almost a game, albeit not a fun one, nor one you think you can win. What is real versus what is not. Whether your memories actually happened or are leftover simulations, and the things that have been manipulated out of recollection. You let Root help. She never pushes to be let in, but you see the strain in her face, the way she flinches when you reach to rub the spot behind your left ear.

Root walks with you throughout the city. Sometimes you bring Bear, but sometimes you go with a mission to remember. On these days, your left hand never leaves your neck, and the other hangs secured in Root's.

The Machine helps with your charade. She gives Root coordinates, and the two of you track them down. Most places you remember. It still surprises you how many of them you don't.

A statue. A bench. Root smirks and says, "You threatened me here once."

"It's probably easier to list places I haven't threatened you."

"Touché." She tilts her head; the Machine's speaking. "The next time you see this statue, think..."

"Impact," you respond, and Root grins. Your expression softens as your brain supplies you with memories of a CIA safehouse, a spaghetti torch, and a late night firefight.

The next day finds the two of you on another bench in the empty hallway of a building. You know where you are, but not why. Root slips on glasses, as if to remind you of something, someone.

"Eeyore?" she prompts.

You shake your head and frown. You feel as though you may have killed someone here, but Root hasn't taken you to very many places like that. This place has ceased to exist. You scratch at the rawing skin and huff angrily when Root removes your hand.

"It's okay, sweetie. We'll go somewhere else tomorrow."

* * *

When your father died, you stopped sleeping. The nights were filled with your mother's muffled sobs and the ache in your ribs and the silence all around. You lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. On nights you couldn't sleep, he used to read to you. For a while, you continue the tradition, muttering his old stories in lilting Farsi by flashlight.

The spine cracked on one of his books a few months after his death. It made you angry in a way you couldn't express, and you threw the book at the wall.

From then on, you slept with your ears covered, even after you moved out and your mother stopped crying.

* * *

"What did you call your parents?" Root had asked you, on a night you can't remember.

You frowned. "Baba and Maman. What did you call yours?"

She looked mildly surprised you answered, let alone asked back. "I don't remember," she said. "Maybe nothing at all."

You weren't sure if you believed her, but you didn't push.

(When you ask, Root doesn't remember this conversation. You tell her the answers anyway.)

* * *

Root likes to believe that the Machine cares about people. By now, you're inclined to agree, but you have a theory of your own. If She cares, you wonder if She has a list of all the people She has lost that She loves. When you propose this to Root, she looks amused.

"Why would She need a list? She lives in all of Her memories at once. We're all alive, and all dead. We're just Schrodinger's cat to Her. It all depends on where She looks."

You huff and rub at your ear; it burns beneath your fingertips. "The lists help you remember," you insist. "People act like time stamps so you can figure out what's real."

Root's eyes widen, and her expression sobers. You wonder if she's remembering something you're not privy to, or have just lost. "What's your list, Sameen?"

"My father's first. Then Cole. Carter." You grab Root's hand to steady your own. "You. John."

"I'm here, sweetie," she whispers, squeezing your hand. "I'm real, I'm here."

"You can only die so many times before you start to forget if you're real," you tell her. Your hand strays. "If I can prove you're real, I can prove what isn't."

She looks at you tenderly, tragically. You wonder how she has yet to fall apart. (She still winces from the pain in her abdomen. Sometimes you wonder if you're both dead.)

* * *

The saddest that Root ever looked, at least in your opinion, were the days that the Machine didn't speak to her. She was already half deaf then, and even though you enjoyed sneaking up on her, you recognized her melancholy.

When she got her cochlear and uploaded into her god, Root came back to life. She has a scar, opposite of where you don't. You're both broken, but two halves make a somewhat stable whole.

You always fit better on her left side anyway.

* * *

In the end, Root admits it was Her idea.

"She's worried about you, Sam. You don't sleep anymore, and it's hurting you."

"How can I sleep when this won't turn off?!" You gesture angrily at your head, leaving Root to wonder if you mean your brain or the chip that isn't there.

In the end, you listen anyway.

You and Root have been sharing a bed for months now. You've done your fair share of fucking in this bed, but plenty of sleepless, memory-haunted nights have filled it too. When the exhaustion becomes too much, you go with Root to bed. She pulls you down beside her, and you lie close together.

It takes you a moment to realize that it's silent.

"You can block it out," Root whispers. "When Control left me with that wonderful parting gift of a stapedectomy, I slept on that ear every night. It was like it wasn't useless at all, just muffled by the pillow." She reaches over and plays with the hair resting on your cheek. "Just look at me."

Her face is close to yours, soft and reassuring. You entwine your fingers with hers between you and close your eyes. Root is warm and your ear is quiet.

For the first time in months, you sleep.

* * *

Most of your life has been spent hiding. For years, you lived in the shadows. You think that's why you fit so well with Root, though you'll never admit it.

_Actually, Sameen, I've been hiding since I was twelve._

You remember this. That was the first time you had really held Root's hand — the first time you held it back. (Now you won't let go.) She looked so vulnerable.

_This might be the first time I feel like I belong._

She knew you understood her even though you didn't respond. It haunts you, almost, thinking about belonging. The places you found it in, and the people. Belonging was a dog, a whiny cop, an uptight computer nerd, a guy in a suit, and a hacker who smiled at you like you were the only thing worth living for.

At age six, your father told you that one day you would learn to appreciate the dark. You did.

Because in it, you found them.

* * *

Sunlight has filtered its way through the curtains and into your room, prodding you gently awake. You blink your eyes open and gaze at Root, whose sleepy eyes are already focused on you. She untangles your hands and softly touches your cheek. Her warmth is almost enough to lull you back to sleep, but you force yourself to watch her; tenderly, tragically.

This is what the darkness gave you.

Root's soft smile tugs up one of your own, and you think that you might start to enjoy sleeping, if it meant you wake up to this. You feel relieved that this is a moment Samaritan cannot take away from you. Something distinctly yours, only for you and Root.

From the dresser, a phone beeps. _"Good morning."_


End file.
